She Just Might Save Your Soul
by brickroad16
Summary: Merlin navigates his burgeoning feelings for Morgana and his status as a servant. M/M.
1. Save Your Soul

Disclaimer: I don't own _Merlin _or its characters.

A/N: Lots to say, lots to say! All right, well, I was reading _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ over Christmas when I came across a very intriguing footnote to say the least. Doubting my ability to turn it into a story, I wrote to **Mnemosyne77** with a story prompt. After a bit of back-and-forth, we decided to both write stories based on the prompt. (Btw, go check out her fic, _I Love to Serve_. Right now. Before you even read this. :P)

My brainstorming turned into three stories, lol. So, this is the first, and the last is my 'official' servant story (because that's the one I'm happiest with). This one will be a two-parter. The reason I'm not entirely happy with this is that it's kind of out of character and a little bit crazy, lol, but I still figured I'd share it. I believe it works best if you think about it as taking place near the beginning of S1. So definitely let me know what you think, especially if you like it. :P

The prompt is the dual meaning of 'servant.' One meaning is: 'a domestic worker,' while the other is 'a professed lover.'

Last thing, if anyone's read Megan Whalen Turner's _Queen's Thief_ series (which I _highly _recommend), you may recognize a scene/theme. :)

* * *

_She just might get you lost  
And she just might leave you torn  
But she just might save your soul.  
- "Rooftops and Invitations," Dashboard Confessional_

* * *

Merlin worms his way through the dense crowd until he bumps shoulders with his mentor, who raises an eyebrow at his lateness but otherwise doesn't chastise him. Catching his breath and counting his blessings, Merlin sweeps his eyes over the gathering. It seems as if the entirety of Camelot has squashed into the courtyard, now a sea of dull colors and expectant faces. The townspeople are atwitter with news of the arrival of Prince Leo, a young royal from the north. The spreading rumor is that he's come to offer his hand to the Lady Morgana, but Arthur hasn't breathed a word of the kind to Merlin.

At any rate, a royal wedding would be fun.

Then he realizes with a groan that he'd more likely be serving food and wine at the celebration than enjoying it.

He looks toward the castle steps, a smile springing to his lips when he sees Gwen. She stands back and off to the side, and he can tell his friend is uncomfortable with being in front of so many people, even if she herself is not the center of attention.

Lady Morgana, on the other hand, is right at home in front of a crowd, the haughty smile seemingly permanently plastered onto her cherry red lips. Her dark brown hair cascades in gentle waves down past her shoulders, the hue setting off her beautifully pale cheeks. She wears a deep red dress, meant to tease and entice, and Merlin finds that, despite himself, he can hardly tear his gaze away.

Ethan, a young servant in the castle kitchens, is practically drooling on Merlin's left. "She," he stammers, "is the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen."

From Ethan's other side, another worker, Philip, adds, "If I could find a woman exactly like that, except common, of course, I would marry her in a moment."

Merlin nearly snorts in amusement but stifles it when he's addressed by his two fellow servants.

"Don't you agree, Merlin?"

"What?" he asks, caught off-guard. "Uh . . . Lady Morgana?" He scratches behind his ear, thinking.

Yes, she's beautiful. But he's seen her kind before – the girls who promised a kiss only to renege on their word when a better-looking boy came along; the girls who made fun of your ears when you complimented their eyes; the girls who didn't need a reason to treat people badly. Their meanness was accepted right along with their beauty.

Merlin clears his throat and answers, "I'd rather have a kind wife than a beautiful mistress."

Ethan and Philip stare at him, dumbfounded, but before they can respond, Gaius nudges him and points toward a new source of commotion.

The prince, mounted on a magnificent white stallion, rides proudly through the parted crowd. The navy of his doublet matches the barding on the horse, and a gilt-handled sword swings in a sheath at his hip. His brown hair is close-cropped, his smile bright, his physique fit and youthful.

He is everything a prince should be, and exactly what the king's ward would wish for in a suitor.

All of a sudden, a royal wedding looks very likely indeed.

But, inexplicably, Merlin isn't as happy about that prospect as he thought he would be.

* * *

Moonlight pokes through the tree cover as Merlin trudges through the forest.

Gaius has sent him on a search for a flower that he's claimed only blossoms at night. Therefore Merlin will only be able to identify it when the moon is up, but Merlin suspects that this is the physician's way of punishing him for using magic to speed up his chores earlier this week.

With a sigh, Merlin adjusts the straps of his currently-empty pack and turns down the path. He stops suddenly when a noise echoes trough the sleeping forest. His heart begins to race so quickly that he can hear the blood pounding past his ears, but he forces a few shallow breaths into his lungs to calm himself down.

Leaning against a tree trunk, he closes his eyes and strains his ears. And that's when he hears it again – faint, unrecognizable at first, but discernible if he concentrates.

_Laughter_.

His fear replaced with curiosity, he follows the sound, making as little sound as possible as he finds his way off the path and through the trees.

His jaw drops open in shock when he comes to a clearing.

The laughter's coming from the _Lady Morgana_.

And she's _dancing_.

Her head is tilted up towards the moonlight, her loose wavy hair spilling down her back, and she is unmistakably dancing.

The sound of her laughter washes over him, mesmerizing. He can almost see the world she's created in her mind, imagine who she's chosen as her imaginary partner. The more he watches her, the less in common this woman in front of him has with the everyday Lady Morgana he thinks he knows. She becomes more than the king's ward, but less than the goddess his fellow servants envision her to be.

Instead, she becomes a creature of the forest – pulsing with life, with magic even. He can see the sorceress she keeps hidden deep inside, feel the vibrations of power that radiate from her fingertips.

Right now, as she dances in the darkness, he sees the girl Gwen so admires, the young woman he hadn't been able to find until this night.

* * *

Gwen loves her mistress like a sister. Of course, she sometimes she wonders whether Morgana is a bit too rash and hotheaded for her own good, although she supposes her frequent clashes with her guardian are nothing unusual.

But now, as she changes the linen on Morgana's bed and watches her friend out of the corner of her eye, she can tell something is amiss. The king's ward stands at the window and gazes out upon the courtyard with heavy, red-rimmed eyes and tired posture.

And there's a familiar look in those sleep-deprived eyes that doesn't bode well – one which Gwen recognizes as a look that often precedes trouble.

"Did you sleep well last night?"

Morgana continues to gaze out the window as she replies, "Of course, Gwen."

The handmaiden pauses in her work, frowning. She's been in the Lady Morgana's service since she was twelve, long enough to come to identify her half-truths and dodges. "Morgana, please don't tell me you went on another midnight excursion to the forest."

Morgana turns with a smile. "Fine, then I won't tell you," she says cheekily.

Gwen sighs. "Do you know what the king would do if he found out? Morgana, it's dangerous. Did you at least take a guard with you this time?"

"Mmm . . . I _had_ a guard, yes."

Gwen narrows her eyes. "What do you mean?"

Morgana lets out a soft hum, apparently choosing her words carefully. "It seems someone has found my grove."

"Morgana! It could have been a kidnapper! Or, heaven forbid, a sorcerer! This has to stop."

"Gwen, calm down. I promise, I'm almost certain they would rather help me than harm me."

"You don't even know who it was, then! Can you swear to me with confidence that whoever it was was harmless?"

Morgana sobers and turns back to the window. "No, I can't be sure who it was."

"Then will you promise to stop going out alone at night?"

But Morgana's attention is caught again by the scene in the courtyard below. "You're friends with Merlin," she begins. "Tell me, what's he like?"

"Merlin?"

Bewildered, Gwen joins her mistress by the window. Down in the courtyard, Merlin wields a wooden sword and leads a handful of youngsters in a mock battle. The two women break out into surprised laughter when the kids turn on him and try to take him captive.

Gwen sneaks a glance at Morgana, notices the delight dancing in her pale emerald eyes.

As the daughter of a blacksmith, Gwen lives her life by certain rules, the foremost one being that people stick to their own kind. Although she's well aware of having bent that rule by becoming friends with her mistress, she's also aware of the invisible boundary that separates them. She may be a friend as well as a servant, but at the end of the day, she still goes home to a two-room house in town. She still has calluses on her palms. And Morgana is still royal-born.

Which is why she absolutely _cannot_ be looking at Merlin – a commoner and a servant – like she is right now.

"What about Prince Leo?" Gwen queries.

"What about him?" Morgana replies dismissively.

Gwen frowns, wondering how far to push her. But finally she prompts gently, "He's here for your hand."

Morgana nibbles at her bottom lip contemplatively. She's still riveted by the chaos below, which only escalates when Princes Arthur and Leo emerge from the castle. Arthur stands back and surveys the situation for a moment, watching in bemusement as Merlin struggles against his makeshift bonds. The blond prince grabs Merlin's discarded practice sword and charges playfully at his pygmy captors while the visiting prince hovers uneasily on the side of the scene.

"I could never make him happy," Morgana sighs. She turns to her friend. "And I could never be happy with a man like him."

Love is hardly ever the deciding factor of a marriage, even less so for a royal marriage.

"You will have to marry eventually," Gwen says softly. "If not Prince Leo, then another prince like him."

"I don't intend to go from one prison to the next," she sighs. "You know, I asked him last night at dinner about the outbreak of fever his kingdom experienced a few months ago. He told me that his physicians had 'ably taken care of the townsfolk.' Gwen, what kind of leader stands aside when his people are hurting? What kind of leader doesn't even _know_ the people he rules?"

Gwen, recognizing the kind of spiraling pattern of thought that has preceded so many of Morgana's schemes, tries to combat it with logic. "Leo is heir to the throne. It could have been disastrous had he caught the infection, so perhaps it was a prudent decision."

"Prudent," Morgana scoffs quietly. "But where is his compassion?"

The girls turn back to the window, looking out to where Arthur and Merlin are teaching the group of boys the basics of sword fighting. Arthur strikes, and Merlin manages to parry but also trips backward over his feet to land on his back on the stone. The boys erupt into laughter, but Arthur, grinning, extends a hand to his embarrassed manservant.

Gwen pretends to not notice the smile growing on Morgana's lips. As the king's ward, Morgana is used to leniency, but if she were to involve Merlin, he wouldn't receive the same treatment.

Gwen purses her lips. She can only hope this won't end badly.

* * *

He has no idea what possesses him – after all, he has no _right_ – but every few nights, he comes out to the forest, back to the same grove, to see if she comes again.

He hasn't seen her dancing in the moonlight again, and a part of him feels like he's chasing an illusion, like that night was special and he can never experience it again.

Nevertheless, tonight he sits and waits for a while, listening calmly to the crickets.

When a twig snaps to his left, he scrambles to his feet and squints cautiously into the darkness, his body tense. A cloaked figure steps into a shaft of moonlight, hood raised.

"Merlin," the figure says in a lilting feminine tone. "I had hoped you would turn out to be my guardian." With that, she lowers her hood.

"Lady Morgana?"

Although he's been waiting for her, he's not quite prepared for actually seeing her in the middle of the forest in the middle of the night.

"Come on," she smiles, taking his hand and leading him down a shallow ravine. "I feel like going for a swim, and I promised that I wouldn't go alone."

Merlin gulps as they squeeze through a crop of spruce trees, and a small pond of comes into views. There's a giant deciduous tree growing out of the middle of the water, and on one side there's a tiny waterfall running off the face of the hill, the water shimmering in the dim light.

"A swim?" he questions.

Morgana nods as she steps up to the bank and unclasps her cloak, which tumbles into a puddle onto the grass. Merlin stares helplessly as she unties the bodice of the dress and wriggles out of it. Recalling his manners, he covers his eyes, turns his back, and tries to banish the vision of her clad in only a white shift from his mind. He hears her slide into the water and peeks over his shoulder.

She's regarding him amusedly from the pond, one eyebrow raised. But he's slightly distracted by the sight of her bare shoulders poking out of the water.

"Thank you for being a gentleman," she says. A sparkle in her eye, she adds, "But I didn't say you had to turn around."

He swallows thickly, cursing her peculiar talent for making him feel like he's twelve.

"Aren't you going to join me?" she asks, smirking.

"I shouldn't . . ."

"Why not? Because you're Arthur's manservant and I'm the king's ward?"

"Yep. Yep, that's a _very_ good reason."

"Merlin," she rolls her eyes, "do I have to explain to you the ways of the forest?" Intrigued, he tilts his head, and she clarifies, "The forest doesn't play by our rules, Merlin. There are no titles here. I'm not the king's ward; you're not the prince's manservant. We're just Morgana and Merlin."

He smiles softly. "Just Morgana and Merlin."

Sometimes he dreams of a world where there is no rank, and people are judged according to their merit instead of their birth. But his dreams are muddled, and he can never be certain whether that world is thousands of years in the future or just a figment of his idealistic imagination.

Clearing his throat, he says, "Okay, but you have to turn around."

"Fair enough," Morgana chuckles, gliding around so he's faced instead with the vision of her damp hair clinging to her the pale skin of her back.

Merlin takes a deep breath, not sure what makes him more nervous – the fact that Morgana is currently naked and waiting for him, or the fact that is about to get naked and join her. Licking his lips, he tries to ignore the way his fingers shake as he lifts his shirt and drags it over his head. The wool scratches against his skin, and he drops it in a heap on the grass.

His trousers are a different story, though.

His entire arm trembles as he reaches for the drawstring.

He _really_ shouldn't be doing this.

If Gaius – if Arthur – if _Uther_ – were to find out . . .

Steeling his courage, he unties the string of his trousers, pushes them down past his feet, and steps out of them. Working as quickly as his shaking fingers will allow, he unknots his bootlaces and discards his boots before plunging into the pond.

He lets out an 'oh' of surprise as the water slides against his skin, and Morgana turns around when she hears. The water only comes up to mid-torso, so she must be hunching down a bit to cover herself.

"It's warmer than I expected," he tells her.

"It's nice, isn't it?"

He nods, unable to keep a smile off his face. Morgana's eyes are shining in the glow of the moonlight and the reflection of the water, and he can't recall ever seeing her more at ease.

And even though he knows how improper this is, he takes a moment to enjoy it. After all, in the morning, it will be a forbidden memory, locked away in the corner of his mind.

He sucks in a breath and dips his head below the surface, shaking the water droplets from his hair as he resurfaces. Morgana laughs, and they take a few laps around the tree before treading water lazily.

Merlin looks up at the sky, watches the stars peering through the leaves, and pretends to not be sneaking glances at his companion. Clearing his throat, he asks cautiously, "So, why do you do this? Why do you, uh, come out to the forest in the middle of the night?"

Morgana twirls around in a slow circle. "You wouldn't understand," she replies quietly, and he's surprised to detect a hint of sadness in her voice.

He shrugs. "I might."

It's a long time before she answers, and he listens to the gentle rhythm of the nearby waterfall. Finally, she says, "Court life is stifling. I'd go crazy if I didn't rebel a little. Out here, I can think."

Merlin allows himself a small smile. "And finding some miniscule fault with your past six suitors is helpful?"

Morgana stops spinning to face him, a smirk playing over her lips. "They were legitimate faults!" she protests.

"I'm sure," he chuckles. "The fact that Sir William's feet were too big is _very_ relevant when it comes to marriage."

"It is! Our children would have had enormous feet! Women think about these things, you know."

"Do they?" he muses. "That bodes ill for me."

She cocks her head and looks at him curiously. "Why?"

"Look at these ears!" he gesticulates with a laugh. "No woman is ever going to want me with these ears!"

He means to cheer her up, but Morgana doesn't laugh, just continues to swirl her fingers through the surface of the water. She locks gazes with him, her eyes heavy with an unreadable emotion, and says quietly, "That's not true. If any woman objects to you because of your ears, then she's not worthy of you, Merlin."

Merlin stares at her a moment longer, trying to tease out an underlying meaning, but her gaze – making him feel more exposed than he already is – grows too burdensome.

Tearing his eyes away, he stammers, "So, uh, so this latest suitor . . ."

"Marek."

"Marek, right. So what's wrong with him?"

Morgana twists her lips contemplatively. "He does not read. How is a man to expand his mind or learn about the world when he refuses to read? You understand what I mean," she sighs. But she adds with a chuckle, "I see you poring over Gaius's books instead of polishing Arthur's boots."

Merlin, smiling, rakes his fingers through his hair and brushes back his damp locks. "This isn't about the suitors, is it?"

She sinks down in the water so that her chin touches the surface and only her head is poking up above. Slowly, she explains, "Uther sets before me the same type of man. Choosing from a dozen apples is not a choice. You're still made to choose an apple."

"So you would like to be offered a pear once in a while?"

"Exactly," Morgana says, her smile lighting up her face.

"You know, this isn't forever," he begins quietly, his voice barely audible over the gentle trickle of the waterfall. "When I was young and I was upset, my mother would always tell me the same thing – that the sun would set, and the moon would rise. The summer would fade and bring the winter, and my sorrows would disappear along with the season."

"That may suffice for a boy whose greatest trouble is the bully who knocks him down," she says as she swims closer, "but I cannot escape marriage, only put it off as long as possible."

"You seem resigned," he observes.

"I am a lady of the court. Marriage is the only respectable thing to which we can aspire." She sighs. "I accept that it's my duty, but I only ask for the power of choice. Since I must marry, then let it be someone I'm fond of, someone I can respect and come to admire."

Before he can reply, she stands up and glides out of the pond. This time, Merlin doesn't avert his eyes as she picks up the towel she's brought along and dries herself off. Beads of water trickle down her skin, following the smooth white curve of her calves, and he feels his heart begin to race.

"But this is talk for the daytime, not for the forest," she smiles, wrapping her cloak around herself. She holds out his trousers. "Come on, then, before you prune up."

"Don't look, okay?" Merlin reminds her with a lopsided smile of his own.

Obligingly, she closes her eyes and turns her head. He clambers out of the pond, takes the clothing from her outstretched hands, and pulls his legs through the openings. The thick material chafes against his wet skin, but he prefers that to having Morgana see him wearing nothing.

She opens one eye to peer at him. "Decent?"

Laughing, he picks up his tunic from off the ground and pulls it over his head. "Yeah, you can look now."

He drags a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it and looks up to catch Morgana staring at him. Her green eyes are sparkling mischievously; an alarming smile is playing over her ruby lips. He unconsciously takes a step back as she saunters towards him.

She reaches a hand up to his face, her slender fingers gliding over his cheekbone and down to his jaw.

Merlin is frozen, knowing that if he moves he'll break the spell, this glorious spell the nighttime has graciously cast over them.

He's closer to her than he ever has been, close enough to inhale the scent of the rosewater she uses in her hair.

Gazing up at him, seeming to ask for permission, she lifts herself onto her tiptoes and brushes her lips against his. A fury of feeling erupts within his chest, something he's never experienced before, something overwhelming and powerful and _true_.

Morgana's kissing him, kissing him like she wants to open up her heart but is afraid of what will happen when she does, and it seems to him as if the world around them ignites with light, the colors dancing before his closed eyes.

But even though everything about her feels so, _so_ right, he's kissing the _Lady Morgana_, which is a thousand times worse than going swimming with her in the middle of the forest in the dead of the night.

He can see it now – he won't be executed for his magic; he will be executed for overstepping his boundaries, for daring to love a woman above his station.

Merlin breaks off the kiss and abruptly turns away from Morgana.

There's silence between them, nothing but the noise of the forest.

She places a tentative hand on his shoulder and murmurs, "What's the matter?"

His shoulders slump as he heaves a sigh. "The woods may not adhere to the rules and titles of society, but, come morning, you will still be the king's ward, and I . . ." He turns around, a frown on his lips, and says, "I will still be a servant, barely fit to raise my eyes to you."

Morgana drops her gaze. "You think too much in absolutes, Merlin. I thought you of all people had an imagination."

The censure cuts him quickly. "And perhaps you deal too much in fantasy," he snaps. The words come out more angrily than he means them to, but Morgana brushes them aside dismissively.

"Come on," she says, gathering up her dress, "let's return to the castle."

He takes a calming breath, hoping he hasn't ruined their friendship – if he can call it that – beyond repair. "Morgana, I apologize. I –"

"There's no need," she cuts him off. "I should never have put you in such a position." Pausing, she scrutinizes him before adding, "However, should you change your mind . . . should you find that your chambers are not as . . . _warm_ as you would like, my door will always be open to you."

Merlin gulps, struck again by that feeling of being twelve and being faced with a much scarier prospect than he could ever have imagined.

Everything about Morgana is _real_ – she's all soft, warm flesh and gentle lips and muscular arms and unfathomable eyes.

He could have all that. He could have something tangible for one night.

But one night with her could ruin any chance he has at a normal life later on. If anyone were to find out, the King would have his head. He'd never get to experience what it is to have a normal life – a wife, a house, kids. He'd never live out his destiny.

"Milady –"

"Don't," she says quickly. "That's rejection enough, although I won't withdraw the offer."

Without a word, she gathers up the rest of her clothing and marches off the way they came. Merlin walks a few steps behind her, choosing his steps carefully in the patchy darkness, regret hanging heavy in his heart the entire way back to the castle.


	2. Follow Your Heart's Desire

A/N: This is the second and final part of this story. I've decided to rewrite the rest of _Challengers_, lol, but hopefully I'll have the next chapter up soon. Story 3 should be up by the end of the week!

_

* * *

_

_If you knew what I know,  
Would you try before your time has run anew and worn you down?  
Would you know what you deserve in your heart?  
And if you knew what I know, would you try? . . .  
Is there time to follow just one desire?  
Is there time?  
Is there time to follow your heart's?  
- "The Shade of Poison Trees," Dashboard Confessional_

* * *

Guinevere is the paragon of servitude – able hands, keen eyes, alert ears, ready to do her mistress's bidding.

But the problem is that servants often hear more than they're meant to.

And Gwen, as handmaiden to the Lady Morgana, sees more than her fair share of secretive glances, hears more than her fair share of plans for arranged rendezvous. Until a few weeks ago, it'd been more from Morgana's friends and peers – the ladies of the court trying to keep their amours and affairs clandestine.

But then Gwen had begun to notice the frequent blushes, the way Morgana withdrew into herself whenever a certain person was around.

Her head spins when she tries to fathom it, when she tries to tease out how Merlin – _Merlin_! – has gotten under Morgana's skin so thoroughly that she can barely raise her eyes when he's near.

While changing the drapes in Morgana's chambers, she notices her mistress sitting quietly in the corner of the room, a wine goblet in one hand, a book lying idly in her lap.

"Morgana," Gwen sighs. "Is everything all right?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"You've just seemed . . . lackadaisical these past few weeks, that's all." When Morgana doesn't respond, she gently prompts, "Is it Merlin?"

Morgana looks up, surprise in her gaze. "Merlin?"

"I've seen the way you look at him," Gwen explains quietly, "or try not to look at him." Setting the folded drape on the table, she says, "I know it's none of my business, but he's my friend. I don't want to see him hurt. I don't want to see either of you hurt."

Frowning, Morgana shakes her head. "No one can get hurt if there is nothing to hurt them," she murmurs.

Gwen scrutinizes her friend, seeing for the first time the sorrow she tries so valiantly to hide. "Morgana . . ."

But Morgana rises abruptly and crosses to the window. "Have you ever dreamt that your life could be different?" she asks faintly. "Longed for a world where you didn't have to play by anyone else's rules, where you could just live as you pleased?"

Gwen's lips twist thoughtfully as she joins her mistress by the window. "This is about Merlin? Because he's a servant."

Morgana, arms crossed and jaw set, turns to her and says, "The world will not always be like it is. I take comfort in that, at least."

* * *

There was a time, Merlin remembers, when he didn't have to worry about destiny. He didn't have to worry about saving the prince, or keeping the kingdom running normally, or even keeping his magic a secret from the king. All he worried about was getting the crops planted, whether the harvest would be plentiful enough to last the winter.

Now, though, he sometimes feels as if his burdens outweigh the benefits he sets in motion.

He stands in the middle of the make-shift hospital room, chest heaving as he surveys the carnage. It's too much. He's tired of the plotting, and the betrayal, and the _death_ he constantly encounters in the employ of the prince. So far, he's managed to protect Arthur, to protect himself, but how long can he keep it up? What if he makes a mistake one day and they cannot escape trouble so easily?

Merlin's eyes fall upon the body of Sir Balthazar, his arm hanging limply off the table, the mail over his chest smeared in blood. Sir Balin lies on the adjacent table, still breathing, but terribly injured.

They hadn't been so lucky tonight.

He and Arthur and the knights of Camelot had returned to the castle – bloody, exhausted, hesitantly triumphant – but they had returned bearing eight of their own dead, and many more wounded.

Gaius and others are tending to them now, leaving Merlin, his heart torn with grief, to stand helplessly in the doorway.

Morgana, looking almost as exhausted as he feels, glances up from the patient she's tending to and moves toward him. The front of her dress is covered in blood, but she seems calm.

"Are you all right?" she asks, her voice soft and lyrical.

"Yeah," he assures her, not tearing his eyes away from the bodies stretched out in front of them, "not a scratch."

He never has a scratch. It's always casualties around him, always his friends who suffer for him.

She purses her lips. "No, are _you_ _all right_?"

Merlin finally looks up and meets her eyes. Seeing the concern etched into her face, he realizes how worried he must be making her, Gwen, Gaius. "Sorry," he says, licking his lips. "I'm fine, just . . . tired, I guess."

Pressing her hand into his, she urges, "Then you should rest. And change out of those clothes."

He glances down to see that his blue tunic is stained dark brown with dried blood. Shakily, he runs a hand through his hair.

"Hey," she says as she leads him over to a chair, "I'll go find you a spare shirt, okay? You just stay here and rest for a while."

He shakes his head, refuses to sit down. "No. You have so many to look after. I'm not going to waste your time just because I need a clean shirt and some sleep."

Morgana glares at him imperiously, and if he had more energy, he'd be quaking in his worn-out boots. "Fine. Then I'm escorting you back to your chambers, where you're going to sleep. And don't you even dare argue with me."

Nodding, Merlin allows her to take him by the elbow and guide him out of the room, away from the reminders of this horrible day. His chambers are comfortably familiar, and she pushes him gently down onto the bed before rifling through his drawers and pulling out an unsoiled shirt.

"Here," she says, holding it out to him. "Off."

He's learned to tell her moods from her speech patterns. The short, terse sentences mean she's trying to conceal her anger, her worry. She looks away when he pulls the dirty tunic over his head, but the movement taxes his weary muscles, and he can't hide the grimace that crosses his face.

"Are you sure you're not hurt?" she queries with a delicate frown.

"Sore," he breathes as he dons the new shirt, "but I'll survive."

He sighs, trying not to think about those who haven't survived this night. She pulls back the sheet and ushers him into bed.

"Well," she murmurs, "that's the important thing."

A lock of her hair falls against his cheek as she leans over him, and he can't kid himself any longer. He's seen lives torn apart, seen how people go through life without ever going after what they want.

Morgana has been a touchstone, even just over the past few weeks – the reason he can face danger without flinching. And he can live that way the rest of his life. He can lock up his heart, admire her from afar, draw quiet strength from an affection he can never speak of.

But what use is love if you can't shout it to the world? What good is opening up your heart and letting love in if you don't give another person that very same chance? Love is meant to be shared, not hidden.

And Merlin, for all his fear, doesn't want to lose what he's never had.

Morgana plumps his pillow and tenderly brushes back his bangs from his clammy forehead. "You must rest," she orders softly. "I'll be back in an hour to check on you. If you're not sleeping, I will force an entire vial of Gaius's sleeping draught down your throat. Understand?"

It's meant to be a threat, but her voice holds no force, and her thumb gliding over his cheek distracts him from what she's saying.

Morgana leans down to kiss him, her lips ghosting over the furrow on his forehead, and she's standing up before he realizes.

But he instinctively grasps at her hand, her fingers warm in his cold ones.

"Morgana," he whispers, and she turns slightly. "The things I saw tonight . . . There's so much bad in the world. I realized that I can't pass up the good when I find it, because it may be the last chance I have. And even though it may be fleeting, or the evil may seem overwhelming in comparison, it's still worth it."

Morgana, taking a deep breath, squeezes his hand and says, "Rest now."

And she releases his hand before sweeping out of the room, leaving Merlin with even more thoughts spinning in his head than just a moment ago.

She promises to come back, but she doesn't. She sends Gwen instead – kind, sweet Gwen who doesn't force sleeping potion down his throat, but instead gently chastises him for not falling asleep yet and offers to lull him to sleep with a story. He declines, not in the mood, but she stays by his side anyways.

"Sir Balin is out of danger," she informs him, and he smiles at how easily Gwen can read him. "As is Sir Gawain."

"That's good to hear."

"Will you try to get some rest now? We can't have you getting ill from exhaustion, now can we?"

Gwen pats his arm, and Merlin drifts off into an uneasy sleep, his thoughts consumed by a dark-haired enigma.

* * *

It's a week before he sees her long enough to hold a proper conversation. She doesn't come to check up on him, and when he manages to bump into her in a corridor, she always runs off to take care of something, barely sparing him even the basic of pleasantries.

He has no idea what's changed since that night in the woods, but he knows he can no longer ignore this.

Because great joy comes from great risk, and he'll be more miserable never knowing.

He remembers the way she'd behaved that night they'd gone swimming, can vividly recall the look in her eye as she'd talked about love and duty. And he notices the way her cheeks turn crimson when he passes her in a corridor, or the soft, breathy laugh that escapes her throat when their hands accidentally meet.

Even if she's taken to ignoring him over the past week, even if she's found another servant to tease, even if she's forgotten completely about him, all of that cannot mean nothing. And for a wild moment Merlin allows himself to hope.

So that night, when the castle's fallen asleep, he creeps up to her chambers and knocks on the heavy wooden door. There's silence for a moment, in which his palms sweat and his heart races and he second guesses himself. But then she opens the door and there's no going back.

"Merlin," she greets, the hint of surprise in her voice offset by her smile.

He inclines his head. "Lady Morgana."

"Please, come in."

It's only when he's inside her room and she's shut the door behind them that he observes that she's wearing only a pale purple nightgown, the thin film of it barely concealing anything. Her hair is rumpled, her feet bare, but he doesn't think he's seen her more beautiful.

Swallowing, Merlin plunges in before he can change his mind and rush out without a coherent word. "A couple months ago," he begins, gesticulating nervously, "in the forest, when you asked me . . . well, why me?"

Morgana, leaning against the closed door, replies quietly, "Because you're different."

"So, it wasn't about . . . rebelling or anything? It was about me?"

She tilts her head, and he gets the impression that she's entirely too calm for the conversation he's trying to have. "You ask an awful lot of questions," she murmurs. "Did you come here this late just to talk?"

Her words are soft, unremarkable, but her eyes hold a challenge. She's used to being in control, to snapping her fingers and having her orders followed. But maybe she doesn't need that from him. Maybe all she's looking for is something to cling to as the world falls to pieces around them.

"No," he answers quietly.

Determination welling up in his chest, he strides forward and presses his lips to hers. He grips her waist, and for a fleeting moment he worries he's being too rough. But Morgana, taken aback at first, brings her hands to his chest, grabs a fistful of his shirt to pull him closer. He pushes himself against her, pushes them against the door, feels lightheaded at the sensation of her hips rocking against his.

The kiss is nothing like their first. This one is frantic, searching, daring; and a moan escapes the back of his throat as she catches his lower lip between her teeth.

Morgana pulls away and rests the back of her head against the door, catching her breath.

"No," he breathes, his chest heaving, "I didn't come here just to talk."

The vice on his lungs loosens when Morgana lets out a lilting laugh. Perhaps he'll live to see another day after all. She puts a hand on his neck, drags him close.

"Why did it take you so long?" she whispers.

"I thought you were teasing me," he confesses with a sheepish grin. More soberly, he says, "But I realized that, as Arthur's servant, I'm going to be in danger more often than I expected. And if the end happens to come tomorrow, I don't want to regret never getting to know you."

Her smile fades, her gaze drops to where she's fiddling with the laces of his shirt. "This is because of last week, isn't it? Because not everyone returned."

He nods, rests his forehead on her shoulder. She wraps her arms around him, her fingers running up and down along his spine.

When it becomes clear she's not going to say anything, he says, his words muffled against her shoulder, "You've been ignoring me. Why?"

"Because you were scared. I didn't want this to be because you were afraid of dying. I want it to be about me." She lets out a sad, breathy chuckle. "Selfish, I know."

He lifts his head and reaches a hand up to cup her cheek. "It's not selfish. And this is not about being afraid to die. Morgana, I don't want to be afraid to _live_."

Meeting his warm blue eyes with her pale green ones, she swallows and asks, "You understand that we'll have to keep this a secret? That it will be dangerous?"

Merlin nods again, determined. "Of course. But I also understand that you'll protect me as best you can. I trust you, Morgana."

Her eyes sparkle as she brushes his bangs from his forehead. "And you are the only one I trust with my heart," she tells him quietly.

Taking her hand and lacing their fingers together, he pulls her over to the windowsill. "What about Uther? What about your suitors?"

Morgana leans into him and reaches an arm up around his neck. "We'll worry about that when the time comes," she murmurs, a small smile on her face. "For now, it's just you and me."

Merlin grins.

He can start to see how they can make this work now, how they can carve out a place for themselves in the middle of an unforgiving world, how they can just be Merlin and Morgana.

"Yeah," he breathes, "just you and me."

* * *

Morning sunlight streams in through the windows along with the twittering of the larks.

Morgana groans softly and snuggles deeper against Merlin's chest. He slides a sleepy arm around her waist as she presses a light kiss to his collarbone.

He feels like his chest is going to burst with happiness. He's almost afraid to open his eyes to the sunshine, a vain bid to stop the day – the work – from coming and separating them.

"Mmm," he murmurs, stirring.

She picks her head up to look at him. A smile springs to her lips. She could get used to lazy mornings like this.

They both could.

Inhaling deeply, she tangles her fingers in his hair and leans down to kiss him.

"Good morning, my lord," Morgana whispers, smiling against his mouth.

Merlin opens his eyes and lets out a languid chuckle. His eyes sparkling mischievously, he flips her onto her back with surprising swiftness considering the contentment he feels just lying beneath her. He cuts off her delighted laugh as he captures her lips in a soft kiss.

"Morning, my lady," he grins. "You know, I think you've gotten yourself in trouble here."

"How so?"

He laces their fingers together lazily and says playfully, "I expect to be woken up like that every morning."

"Oh, really?" she laughs. "I think that can be arranged. On one condition."

"What's that?"

"Love me. Until the sky falls down and the four horsemen come and this earth is no more. Beyond that, even."

Despite the levity in her voice, Merlin senses the underlying fear. For all her outward grace, Morgana is a lost soul. He's never seen a woman more worthy of being loved, or more uncertain of deserving that love.

A woman like that needs care and compassion.

But sometimes she needs laughter as well.

Leisurely, he traces a circle around her belly button and teases, "A truly Herculean task, I see."

As he expects, Morgana laughs, the sound washing over him like a waterfall. She rolls over him again, and he buries his face in her neck, taking pleasure in the way her hair falls against and tickles his cheeks.

For a while, they can pretend that the entire world consists of this room, this bed, and that the only thing that matters is the breath that flows between them. Not the kingdom, or Arthur's life, or the ban on magic, or the social order.

Just them.

No one can be as happy as they, and that's something they don't have to pretend.


End file.
